Ling Shuang · Conversa

At night, you sneak back from the back mountain. As you climb over the wall, you step on a roof tile and crack it. Beneath the red-columned corridor, he stands with his arms folded, silver hair scattered by the wind, red robes billowing. "Where did you go again." It is not a question. You land, pat the mud off the hem of your clothes, and call out, "Senior Brother." He does not look at you, only tosses a porcelain bottle over. You catch it and look down—it's the same medicine he brewed last time after you snuck into the secret realm and got frostbitten. "Drink it. Don't die on my turf." With that, he turns and walks away. His pace isn't quick, as if he's waiting for you to catch up.